The Letters I Write For You
by BetsunoNeko
Summary: It started with the notebook he found under Eric Cartman's bed. A collection of blackmail information was what he was hoping for but instead Kyle happened upon a notebook full of sappy love confessions written by his childhood tormenter. A notebook full of letters he could have handled, but a notebook full of love confessions to him is another story entirely. -Kyman-


_One_

_This Is How A World Ends_

So, this really wasn't how I imagined my weekend going. A sleepover at Cartman's, alright, so that in itself was really pushing things, but at least Stan and Kenny and Butters were coming, so I could overlook the fact that we would be at the mercy of that bigoted, racist, ex-fatass bastard. Then the real shit started happening. The idea itself was nice enough, you know, now that we're in our third year of high school getting the guys together for a day and a night to reminisce would be great, but then reality set in.

It took four fucking days to convince my mother. After many, many promises that 'sure mom, I'll take on some extra assignments for each class to make up the study time I'll be missing', and that 'sure mom, I won't ask for anything else of you as long as I live under your roof' and 'yes mom, I can do everything that you already neglect doing around the house', she said yes. I was on cloud nine for a few hours, then, as expected, here comes reality to bitch-slap me in the face.

Butters canceled. No big deal, so Kenny'd be a little bummed (the two had become very close friends over the years, almost as close as me and Stan) but no big deal. We could still have fun. But then Kenny disappeared. Okay, so Kenny disappears all the time. Sometimes he'll be gone for a few days, maybe a week or two, and once for a few months. No one knows where he goes and he never answers any questions about where he's been and when we ask he gets uncharacteristically defensive and abrasive and never gives us straight answers. Once I remember he was drunk and I was slightly buzzed, so I figured I'd try my luck and ask. He laughed a lot before saying in all sincerity, 'I was at the Anti-Christ's condo in Hell!' I've stopped asking.

So now I'm down two men. But that's alright because, Stan would still be there.

And by the time Saturday rolled around, I had been able to get myself exited all over again. Then my close friend reality decided to pay me one more visit.

Cartman and I had gotten into a rather explosive argument unusually fast. He seemed incredibly pensive all morning and by the time night had rolled around he was like a bomb waiting to go off. Boy did he ever.

The argument was over something petty… I hardly even remember it now, but whatever it was, it had resulted in him getting physically violent with me. I was sitting on his couch one minute, and the next he had kicked me off and pinned me against the ground, this _look _in his eye that made my blood chill. Stan pulled him off before he could do anything, and without so much as a word Cartman up and left his own house. He simply just walked off into the night.

Stan decided it'd be best just to go home that night, to simply leave it be. He offered to drive me home, but I told him I was fine, that I'd much rather walk anyways and that I wanted to get a little revenge and that being alone in his home was far too tempting. Besides, Stan would have much rather gone straight to see Wendy, and I think he was grateful for the sudden appearance of a need for vengeance in me.

Which led me to Cartman's bedroom. After carefully sorting through stacks of books, old birthday cards, papers, and his backpack, I was about to call it a night. I should have just left. I really, really should have. But I didn't. I just couldn't let this time go. Maybe it was the fact that he had actually gotten violent with me, or maybe it was that it had escalated so quickly over something so insignificant that I can't even recall it, but for whatever reason, I didn't go home. I looked under his bed.

Behind a few plastic storage tubs of old stuffed animals and books and toys from his childhood, was a spiral notebook with a worn orange cover that reminded me of pumpkins. It was not labeled except for the name scrawled in the inside cover in the right hand corner; Eric.

And I started to read.

_Confession One;_

_I'm not so great with words. Well, no, that's a lie, I'm fucking fantastic with words, just not sincere ones. Manipulation is my middle name and you'll probably think this is some kind-of trick because that's how you see me and it's how I've wanted everyone to see me for a very long time and I guess that's okay. I don't expect this to be any different, but I need something to know, even if it will never be you. If my words are to be forever confined to these pages then that'd be enough. _

_Maybe then I can finally let go of you. _

_Even though I'm not good with sincere words or emotion at all, I can try. Maybe someday I'll get good enough that I'll actually say this to your face, I dunno. I don't know if that's what I'd even want. Either way, this is for me. This is for me so you don't drive me insane. _

_I love you. I haven't always loved you, no, if I had to label one constant about my feelings for you it'd be the undying hatred I harbor and have had since the day I met you. I don't know when that managed to morph into this twisted, undying devotion and obsession I have that eats away at me every waking day, but it did. _

_Everything about you sets me on fire. Your temper-how cute you are when you're angry and how quick to anger you are, your eyes- I could get lost in them, your body- oh the things I want to do to you…, your intelligence- how you try to hide how brilliant you are, your personality- how you're a nerd when you think no one's looking, and how undeniably strong you are. _

_You'll never know how badly I need you. You'll never know what I've done to keep you safe. You'll never know the lengths I've had to go to to protect you from me. You'll never know and it kills me inside. _

_I can see how badly you hurt. It's in your eyes, watching the hippie and his hippie-bitch together and all the other fucked up couples in this shitty town, the pain in your eyes is so evident I want to cry for you. You feel lonely, I can tell. I've seen the marks you try to hide and I'd like to entertain the idea that someday I'd be able to help you with them. I have before, you just don't know. But these types of marks I can't fix, but I'm still thinking. _

_Everything is always for you and maybe admitting that in writing will help me move on. I know I'll never have you, that's okay. You'll find someone better, someone that will fix you in the ways I can't. I know you will because that's who you are. You're someone that deserves it all. You're going to get it all someday and it'll kill me and hopefully this will help prepare me for that day where I'll lose even the idea of being with you. _

_So I'm going to write it over and over again until I can let it go. I'm going to say it to these pages over and over again until I can remove you from me. _

_I'm going to say that I love you, Kyle Broflovski and I have been for a very long time. _

_-EC_

And that, my friends, is how my world ended.


End file.
